I think yoga is a sport, just like the World Cup. Hear me out.
Tuesday was one of those days. I love yoga, love my home practice, love class, but there are some days, some weeks, even, when it all goes off the rails.
This is one of those weeks. I’ve been in hotels two weekends in a row, I’ve seen my share of drive-through windows over those weekends, and my hotel practice has been less thorough than my home practice. I’ve been away so much that my dog rolls her eyes when I come home.
The result is that my body and spirit are tired, chunky, and unsociable.
It took Olympian determination to get myself to yoga class on Tuesday. It was touch-and-go all morning. I kept thinking, “I can go home for a break, I can eat, I can read, I can get some work done, I can sit here and stare out the window for an hour.” Most of these options looked much more appealing than going to class.
(It’s possible some of you never feel this way. I am determined to like you anyway.)
By the grace of Whatever, I get changed, get in my car, and drive to the studio. I lie down, and almost immediately I could cry, I am so happy. Class starts. My left hamstrings have shrunk considerably over the weekend, somehow, I have NO balance, my thighs and rear end burst at the inadequate seams of my formerly roomy yoga pants, and still there is no place I’d rather be.
This is where the World Cup comes in.
When we go to class on these days, I think our teachers should welcome us at the door with big, glossy medals.
“Would you like a medal today?”
“Yes,” I’d say.
“Bronze, silver or gold?”
“Are you joking? Do you have any idea how far I’ve come today?The French fries and pizza I have overcome, the hotel coffee, the hours in the car, the dog’s face, and lethargy the size of an oil spill? Give me the gold, absolutely. I am the champion of the world today.”
There are days when we should all have medals around our necks.
Thanks to yoga for making me show up, and thanks to you for the conversation.